Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) by Jeanne Glidewell Page A
Authors: Jeanne Glidewell
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least for five or six minutes until he fell fast asleep on the couch. Dolly had climbed down from her customary perch on top of the back cushions of the couch and was snuggled up on his chest with a paw resting on his chin.
I made myself a hot cup of chamomile tea and sat down at the kitchen table, which also served as a makeshift bed, an office, a hobby room, and Rip's personal nest. On any given day he could amass an entire mound of dirty clothes, sorted-through mail, trash of every fashion, dirty dishes, candy wrappers, personal effects, and an ever-changing collection of odds and ends on the table. I couldn't complain, however. I had a nest of my own on the table next to the recliner.
After a couple of soothing sips from my tea cup, I opened up the iPad Regina had gifted us with the previous Christmas. When we'd attended a surprise birthday party at Lexie Starr and Stone Van Patten's, B&B, the Alexandria Inn, in August, I'd been given an eight-week course in tablet training in the space of a mere forty-five minutes. Much of the technical lingo went over my head like a rapidly-moving cloud. And I don't mean the "cloud" my instructor, Mattie Hill, had told me I could store my files in. I not only had no idea where to find this mystical cloud, I also had no clue how to stuff files into it if I did.
But I am proud to say I'd managed to learn how to obtain information on the Internet, how to play games like Scrabble and Mahjong, and, last but not least, how to ask some lady named Siri ridiculous questions. Her responses often provided free entertainment for Rip and me.
Rip's favorite question to date was "What should I be for Halloween?" Siri's response, "Dishes. Girls loving doing dishes." Who knew a technical device could have her chip in the gutter? Funny though, when I asked her to talk dirty to me she told me my carpet needed cleaning. Now, how entertaining is that? Who needed to sit around a campfire discussing their maladies with strangers when they had Siri to converse with?
Before I began nodding off at the table, I attempted to Google "Pat Rockport, Texas Attorney" and "Pat Rockport, Texas Physician" and came up with so many hits I decided my best option was to drive to 32 Third Street the following day. With any luck at all, I could locate this red-headed Irishman named Pat there.
Chapter 7
"Willow J. Bradford OB/GYN, Patrick R. O'Keefe GP, R. G. Patel MD, and James Carney ENT," read the bronze-plated plaque on the door. I was standing on the front steps of a walk-in health clinic at 32 Third Street, a recent local addition I hadn't known existed before that moment. Thankfully, I'd also learned to utilize the GPS on the truck's dashboard last summer while staying at the Alexandria Inn.
So, the Irishman was a physician. A general practitioner, to be more precise. I'd have wagered on the other option if I'd had to make a guess, because he'd practically oozed attorney vibes. I could think of at least a dozen lawyer jokes that exemplified this particular carrot-topped doctor.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a slight twitch in my right shoulder. It was probably connected to the twitch in my hand I'd experienced at the restaurant the night before. Although I'm relatively certain it was a fluke nerve tic, you just can't be too careful these days. I decided it would probably be prudent of me to go into the clinic and request a professional opinion in the event it was an issue that might worsen and plague me in the future. That was my story and I had every intention of sticking to it.
I filled out the necessary paperwork while the receptionist scanned my Medicare and insurance supplement cards. Then I sat in a chair next to an end table that had a stack of magazines and pamphlets piled on it. I sifted through a recent edition of Arthritis Today while I waited to be seen, along with a dozen other patients in the clinic's lobby. The magazine wasn't particularly relevant to my condition, but chances were good it
I made myself a hot cup of chamomile tea and sat down at the kitchen table, which also served as a makeshift bed, an office, a hobby room, and Rip's personal nest. On any given day he could amass an entire mound of dirty clothes, sorted-through mail, trash of every fashion, dirty dishes, candy wrappers, personal effects, and an ever-changing collection of odds and ends on the table. I couldn't complain, however. I had a nest of my own on the table next to the recliner.
After a couple of soothing sips from my tea cup, I opened up the iPad Regina had gifted us with the previous Christmas. When we'd attended a surprise birthday party at Lexie Starr and Stone Van Patten's, B&B, the Alexandria Inn, in August, I'd been given an eight-week course in tablet training in the space of a mere forty-five minutes. Much of the technical lingo went over my head like a rapidly-moving cloud. And I don't mean the "cloud" my instructor, Mattie Hill, had told me I could store my files in. I not only had no idea where to find this mystical cloud, I also had no clue how to stuff files into it if I did.
But I am proud to say I'd managed to learn how to obtain information on the Internet, how to play games like Scrabble and Mahjong, and, last but not least, how to ask some lady named Siri ridiculous questions. Her responses often provided free entertainment for Rip and me.
Rip's favorite question to date was "What should I be for Halloween?" Siri's response, "Dishes. Girls loving doing dishes." Who knew a technical device could have her chip in the gutter? Funny though, when I asked her to talk dirty to me she told me my carpet needed cleaning. Now, how entertaining is that? Who needed to sit around a campfire discussing their maladies with strangers when they had Siri to converse with?
Before I began nodding off at the table, I attempted to Google "Pat Rockport, Texas Attorney" and "Pat Rockport, Texas Physician" and came up with so many hits I decided my best option was to drive to 32 Third Street the following day. With any luck at all, I could locate this red-headed Irishman named Pat there.
Chapter 7
"Willow J. Bradford OB/GYN, Patrick R. O'Keefe GP, R. G. Patel MD, and James Carney ENT," read the bronze-plated plaque on the door. I was standing on the front steps of a walk-in health clinic at 32 Third Street, a recent local addition I hadn't known existed before that moment. Thankfully, I'd also learned to utilize the GPS on the truck's dashboard last summer while staying at the Alexandria Inn.
So, the Irishman was a physician. A general practitioner, to be more precise. I'd have wagered on the other option if I'd had to make a guess, because he'd practically oozed attorney vibes. I could think of at least a dozen lawyer jokes that exemplified this particular carrot-topped doctor.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a slight twitch in my right shoulder. It was probably connected to the twitch in my hand I'd experienced at the restaurant the night before. Although I'm relatively certain it was a fluke nerve tic, you just can't be too careful these days. I decided it would probably be prudent of me to go into the clinic and request a professional opinion in the event it was an issue that might worsen and plague me in the future. That was my story and I had every intention of sticking to it.
I filled out the necessary paperwork while the receptionist scanned my Medicare and insurance supplement cards. Then I sat in a chair next to an end table that had a stack of magazines and pamphlets piled on it. I sifted through a recent edition of Arthritis Today while I waited to be seen, along with a dozen other patients in the clinic's lobby. The magazine wasn't particularly relevant to my condition, but chances were good it
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